


the kid was all right but it went to his head

by avoidfilledwithcelluloid



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: Blowjobs, Fighting, M/M, Slurs, abusive behaviors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 12:43:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3488699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avoidfilledwithcelluloid/pseuds/avoidfilledwithcelluloid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s fucking ridiculous, isn’t it, that now he even thinks the name Neiman before he thinks of Andrew. Who is Andrew anymore? Andrew is a slow moving boat to China. Neiman is a quick switch of two syllables that lashes out and leaks spit with blood onto the practice room floors of Shaffer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the kid was all right but it went to his head

**Author's Note:**

> oh my god. tell my mom when i die how sorry i am that i spent three weeks of my life writing a 7k+ whiplash fic. anyway, thanks 2 smurph for giving me ideas and listening to me whine abt writing musicians when i am not one. i know so little about drumming but so much about being melancholy. title is from the song "fame" by fall out boy.
> 
> i hope u all enjoy this labor of love. it was written just for u.

After the performance a woman comes up to Neiman and tells him she knows a musician in need of a studio drummer. Neiman accepts her offer, puts the number of the musician in his suit pocket and turns to face his father. He’s frowning, eyes puffier than usual, and his arms are crossed. Neiman doesn’t move an inch. His body is still a car crash sound where it should be bones and flesh.

Neiman’s dad tells him he has blood on his collar.

(It’s fucking ridiculous, isn’t it, that now he even thinks the name Neiman before he thinks of Andrew. Who is Andrew anymore? Andrew is a slow moving boat to China. Neiman is a quick switch of two syllables that lashes out and leaks spit with blood onto the practice room floors of Shaffer. The whole name thing has become embarrassing; there is a hesitation between the turn of his head and his dad calling out “Andrew”, a hesitation between himself and the letter of dismissal from Shaffer that says _Mr. Andrew Neiman_ but there is no pausing for how sharp Neiman cuts into the drum of his ear with the force of a well-timed slap.)

Looking down it appears that, yes, he does have a spot of blood on his white collar. There is also blood on the edges of his sleeves where his band aids are hanging, rust colored and gummy, from the webbing between his thumb and pointer finger.

“Yeah,” he says back and licks his lips where they are dry, stinging from the sweat rolling down his face.

“Andrew,” his father says and it takes a minute for Neiman to look up from his bloodied sleeve, “this is bad choice you’re making.”

Neiman nods. His father has always made it clear that what builds a life are choices. Good and bad choices are both important. His mother had made the choice to leave them, probably sensing the malignant storm of a son she’d had. His father made a choice when he kept teaching even though his typewriter was growing dusty. And Neiman made a choice, looked at the split in the road and walked forward with no vision only faith as though he Cassandra and Fletcher the whispers driving him to madness.

“That depends on how you look at it,” Neiman replies, “I faced my fears. That’s a pretty good choice.”

“I’m afraid that you didn’t face them,” his father says, “so much as got into bed with them.”

Neiman shrugs. He’s got a card in his pocket and sweat on the nape of his neck that say the bed isn’t so bum a deal as he’d once thought.

He lets his dad guide him outside by the arm and for a minute he sees Fletcher on the curb with a group of other older musicians. He’s grinning, a wide set of teeth on that baseball dickhead-ed motherfucker like he’s just won the fucking lottery.

“Hey Fletcher,” Neiman screams while his dad tries to push him into a cab. Fletcher looks up, his eyes alighting on Neiman as if he were a stranger. Neiman squirms against his dad’s hold and runs forward, charging toward the crowd and pulls his hand back.

He socks Fletcher right in the nose and the blood spurts from his face; red spots fly onto the dried stains on Neiman’s collar while the noises around him turn white.

Fletcher’s hand flits to his face: the weasel faced tuxedoes around him parting with faces of horror as he shoulders Neiman in the gut, knocking the air out of him as Neiman and Fletcher hit the ground with a flurry fists flying. The scuffle is difficult to follow. Neiman knows that at some point both he and Fletcher have given each other split lips and Fletcher has called him a “faggot” as well as a few pointed Jewish slurs that Neiman knows are making his dad wish he had the balls to beat the shit out of Fletcher as well. The back of Neiman’s throat tastes metallic, he’s choking and Fletcher slaps his face. Sputtering, Neiman stops fighting back but is still shaking violently underneath Fletcher’s hands that press him into the concrete.

“You didn’t fucking win,” Neiman spits out and it sounds as waterlogged as he feels, “you fucking shit bag. You didn’t win.”

Fletcher stands up and adjusts his cuffs, stained red and grey. He looks down at the bruised and heaving face of Andrew Neiman, drummer.

“Go home Andrew,” he says and walks away. Neiman’s dad rushes to his side, helping him up but it’s no fucking use. Neiman starts crying.

The cab ride home hurts more than the fists do.

…

Neiman squeezes his eyes shut and imagines Nicole sitting on top of him, little and smiling down in a pink, wait, no, a white set of lingerie. Nicole who has long brown hair and hands that unbutton Neiman’s shirt. He settles a hand around his dick, works himself into a rhythm. His imagination clouds up under his eyes until outside of his hand nothing can touch him.

Her skin is soft as Neiman runs his hands up the sides of her thighs. In contrast he feels dirty. The calluses on his palms never heal up right and leave him with jagged raised skin which catch on everything.

She leans down next to his ear to whisper to him. (Whispering during sex is good, right? It’s sexy, maybe? Neiman doesn’t really know.) Her breath comes out in huffs, a stroke for each time she shifts her hips on top of his.

“You cocksucking maggot,” she says and her hands get rough, piercing on his shoulder, “You can’t even fucking fuck without someone guiding your limp dick along can you?”

Neiman clenches his teeth as when this Nicole, a tall and shadowy Nicole with eyes that are cruel and hands that move through air with bad grace, hits him in the mouth. When he opens his eyes he has bitten the end of his tongue. Shouting, he falls off the bed on his elbow and groans at the sharp pain that shoots up his arm.

“Fuck,” he says, wiping his hand off on his pant leg, “Motherfucking shit.”

…

“Andrew,” says Fletcher, hand on Neiman’s elbow pulling him back toward the crowded bar, “Going somewhere in a hurry?”

Neiman is, in fact. He’s got a session scheduled with some other musicians for a D list pop star’s Christmas album. His sticks bag sits awkwardly over his shoulder as he stares at the space between Fletcher’s collar and where his skin starts again.

“Yeah,” Neiman replies with the enthusiasm of a wet fish hitting pavement. Fletcher looks good for being a bastard sitting atop a mountain of music students’ corpses. He is smiling, monstrous.

“Take a break,” Fletcher says and pulls Neiman further in, “Let’s catch up.”

If he didn’t want to be brought in he wouldn’t be letting Fletcher lead him to a table and chairs but still it feels like he has no choice. He’s just slowly being tricked again into giving up good money over the sliver of Fletcher being nice to him.

“So,” Neiman says as he sits down, slips his stick bag over the back of his chair, “how’s your nose?”

The question slips out before Neiman fully thinks about what he’s saying but saying it feels good. Fletcher scoffs and points to a small bump that has taken up residence on the ridge of his nose. Pressing his lips tight together in an attempt not to grin Neiman nods.

“You can throw one hell of a punch Andrew,” Fletcher says and gestures to a waiter to bring them two drinks. Neiman doesn’t think about how it’s weird that Fletcher just assumes what Neiman will want to drink (it’s just water, if Fletcher had asked). All his attention is caught on the flicker of movement that is Fletcher pointing at the wait staff. Tight and controlled the action conveys something to someone else with the minimal amount of effort it takes to cut a finger through the air. Neiman starts to jiggle his leg along with the Coltrane playing in the bar.

A waiter, tall and pretty, puts to glasses down and they both have something that smells like rubbing alcohol in them. Fletcher hands the person two bucks and they walk away stiffly. Neiman had figured Fletcher was a shit tipper.

“So Andrew,” he continues, “where were you hurrying off to?”

“Uh,” Neiman hums, bobbling his head, “I had a session booked with this, uh, singer.”

“So you’re doing session drumming now?”

“Um, I wouldn’t call it what I’m doing now,” Neiman grasps at something to say that won’t sound ridiculous, “It’s on the side. A side thing.”

“Hm,” Fletcher takes a drink, “So drumming is a side thing for you?”

“No,” rushes out of Neiman’s mouth before he can stop the word. Even if he’d thought about it the word still would’ve come out and still have sounded reedy: a dandelion struggling to grow through concrete, “No, no, I’m just sort of-“

“Listen Andrew,” Fletcher says, “The way you drum isn’t something you can do on the side. It’s all or nothing. There aren’t any sort ofs in jazz, do you understand?”

“Fletcher,” Neiman starts but halts his speech when Fletcher holds up a hand.

“I asked if you understood,” he says, “not for a fucking excuse.”

Neiman sits back in his chair having unconsciously started leaning closer to the other man. He has one hand fiddling with the glass, not drinking it but running a finger around the rim.

“I understand,” Neiman says and in a way he does understand. He understands that he’s been treating his talent like a comet: one bright and brilliant night that was never meant to last forever. Drumming should just be the sky: always above him and never wavering. That’s what it was.

His dad had told him that not drumming for a while would do him good.

Fletcher puts his drink down and it’s empty.

“Andrew,” he says, “If I ever see you again and you are doing drumming as a ‘side thing’, I will fucking beat you to a pulp.”

“Fuck you,” Neiman says and takes a drink before sputtering. What’s in the glass is straight whiskey. Out of his watering eyes he can see Fletcher smirking. Fucking bastard.

“You know kid,” Fletcher takes the glass away from Neiman and drinks it himself, “you are the only person in the fucking world who says that to me like you mean it.”

 “Well I do,” Neiman says and checks his watch. He’s a half an hour late to his booked session. Money is literally slipping right through his god damn hands because he can’t stop giving Fletcher the time of day, “You’re a fucking piece of shit.”

Fletcher shakes his head.

“There is something in you Andrew,” Fletcher says, “that just doesn’t know when to stop.”

They stay until the bar lights dim and Neiman realizes its eleven o clock at night on a Tuesday so he’s missed his usual movie night with his dad. He can see him, tapping a foot outside the apartment. In the streets that he and Fletcher step into there is a late summer night heat that sticks to the back of Neiman’s neck. Déjà vu is eating at his brain. Fletcher has a coat thrown over one shoulder, finger hooked in the collar and Neiman has his sticks hanging off his slumped shoulder. He feels woozy, remembers he hasn’t eaten since three in the afternoon. Down the sidewalk someone is yelling and there are lights hanging from street lamp to street lamp.

“Andrew,” Fletcher says and Neiman knows that he’s objectively taller than Fletcher but he feels miniature when Fletcher says his name, “if you are looking for another music school, you’ll need an audition tape.”

“I think I can do that on my own,” Neiman says, a drop of bitterness under the words.

“When you figure out what a fucking stupid idea that is,” Fletcher snaps, “find me. I’ll work on it with you.”

He pulls a notepad out of his slacks’ pocket, writes something on it and, without warning, shoves the paper into Neiman’s pocket. Neiman jumps back a ways, surprised by the contact and when he looks up Fletcher is already walking away. His whole body is vibrating around the center of his pants pocket warm from the brief touch of Fletchers hand.

When he gets home his dad has left a post it not on the microwave and a box of Fruit Gushers. Neiman throws the post it away without looking at it, taps the paper from Fletcher on the fridge and steps back, stares at it.

He hadn’t expected Fletcher to have such bad handwriting.

 

…

“Holy shit,” Kristie turns Neiman’s palms up in her smaller, darker hands, “Did you get in a fight Andy?”

“No,” Neiman answers, “I was drumming.”

They are alone in the shop since it’s four and no one wants a fucking sandwich at four except for the stragglers who only just now got their lunch (and those people sit outside while Neiman closes his eyes and wishes they would implode before they finish their kettle chips). Kristie, his co-worker, is fascinated by the marks and missteps of Neiman’s viewable body. She’s asked about the scars on his face (a car crash but his dad was driving) and picked at why he never answers to Andrew which is why she’s started to call him Andy as some sort of joke. He wears gloves usually since they aren’t allowed to touch the meat with their bare hands but he’s just working cash register today so he hadn’t thought to put them on.

“You in a band then?” Kristie turns back to the deli counter with her eyes still on Neiman, “Rock band?”

“No,” Neiman fiddles with the pen and order pad, leaving sweat smudges on the lines that say Customer Name, “I just. I’m auditioning for an arts college and I’ve been, uh, practicing on the drums a lot lately.”

“Oh,” and then after a pause, “So you really aren’t in a band?”

Neiman ignores her. He’s watching the outside people read the newspaper, eat their sandwiches and knows that all the scabs on the webbing of his fingers is a mark of greatness. That Neiman is never just going to be outside reading the newspaper: that he will be in the newspaper.

Kristie sighs. She starts to play with the elastic of her glove and then asks Neiman to pass her the pen so she can draw the Illuminati symbol on her wrist. He doesn’t move so she shoves him with her elbow.

“What?” There is a little ringing in his ear and Kristie is frowning at him.

“I asked for the pen?” she asks, her brow furrowed.

“I didn’t hear you,” Neiman tosses the pen to her, “I sort of don’t hear well on this side.” He points to his left ear. It’s got two nicks along the shell: the stick of echoed blood.

“Another accident,” Kristie says, scribbling on her wrist, “Right?”

The music they play in the deli are tinny covers of swing songs. Fletcher would hate the fucking shit out this place.

“Something like that,” he says, “I was driving and I got hit. Blindsided me and then I-“

The doorbell dings, a customer walks in and Neiman doesn’t finish his sentence.

…

 “You have a George Michael record?”

Fletcher doesn’t look up from the music theory book in his hand but nods at Neiman. Suppressing a laugh, Neiman turns back to the shelf of records that he’s been riffling through since he got to Fletcher’s. All he wants to do when he arrives is touch everything: every cup and plate and book and record will have Neiman’s thumbprint on it.

There is a drum set in the corner of the living room; Neiman brought it in pieces to Fletcher’s apartment. For the first fifteen minutes of his visits, Neiman will wander Fletcher’s home while Fletcher finishes his other business (usually reading in a menacing manner on the sofa while watching Neiman pick at his belongings). Then Fletcher will snap at Neiman to “Stop wondering which of my candlesticks will fit up your ass Andrew” and Neiman will scuttle over to the drum set as though he’s been caught in the act.

Neiman uses his fingernail to pick at the plastic sleeve of the George Michael album. There is a frame on the left side of the shelf that he looks at every session and still has never asked about. He feels uncomfortable about the picture. Perhaps it is because Fletcher is smiling at someone who isn’t Neiman or who Neiman doesn’t know. That there is a world outside of the one where he comes to Fletcher’s apartment and gets yelled at for three hours before going home to jerk off. A nice looking white woman is on one side and Fletcher is on the other and in the middle is a little girl. Maybe the woman and the girl died.

(Neiman hopes they are dead to be honest because then they won’t come back and make Fletcher stop seeing his nineteen year old student on a weekly basis.)

“All right Andrew,” Fletcher says and flicks his wrist to point at the drum set, “stop fucking around with the fag bait and we’ll start.”

It takes an hour for Neiman’s band aids to get loose and then fall off. The wood stings on his open wounds but he doesn’t slow down. Fletcher is staring, again. His eyes follow the flying line of Neiman’s arm and even in the frenzy of his playing Neiman knows that this is not a stare of disappointment.

Open mouthed, Neiman is putting on a show.

“Jesus Christ,” Fletcher yells, sliding his fist through the air to stop Neiman, “what the fuck is wrong with your grip? Your tempo was all over the place.”

“Oh,” Neiman looks down at the ring of blood on his sticks, “sorry. I think I bled on my sticks too much.”

Fletcher sighs and hums a tense little noise that means practice is over. Neiman winces as he stands up. His palms are aching.

“There’s some first aid in the bathroom cabinet,” Fletcher says and points down the hallway, “don’t fuck around. Go get some band aids and then get the fuck out.”

Inside of Fletcher’s bathroom it is very white. On the back of the toilet are three rolls of toilet paper stacked into a tower. Neiman stands for a moment, looking at himself in the mirror that has flecks of toothpaste all over it. Fletcher has very crummy towels, the kind that used to be nice but are now a little yellow with age and use. The under of Neiman’s eyes is very dark.

(Neiman’s brain betrays him and brings up the image of Fletcher showering which he quickly has to shoot down for fear of getting hard in the middle of Fletcher’s fucking apartment.)

He finds the band aids which are longer than the ones he has at home and puts three on both hands. Also, he steals some extra ones and stuffs them in his jean pocket.

When he reenters the living room Fletcher is back to his music theory. He’s leaned back on the sofa, leg crossed over the other, looking straight at the pages like he can’t look anywhere else. Neiman picks up his stick bag and slides the bloody sticks into their slots before going back to Fletcher’s bookshelf. He picks up the picture frame.

“Who are they?”

“Andrew,” Fletcher says and when Neiman looks up from the photo Fletcher has set his book down in favor of staring Neiman straight on, “put the picture back.”

“Yeah okay,” Neiman says, not caring that he sounds snide, “but answer my question. Who are they?”

“For fuck’s sake Andrew,” and now Fletcher gets up, “You think you can just come and fuck around with my stuff because you come here to practice? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

It is hard to fight the shiver that runs through Neiman’s spine when Fletcher gets in his face but there’s no difficulty in meeting his eyes. Sometimes Neiman forgets: Fletcher is hell of a lot shorter than him.

“I think that you are avoiding my question,” Neiman continues. He’s put the frame back where it was without breaking eye contact with Fletcher, who has bright and infuriated eyes. Neiman’s left ear is ringing.

“They were,” Fletcher bites out, “my family.”

“Did they die?”

“No,” Fletcher says and loses a little fire with his answer, “they live in Minnesota. My daughter is eleven. She comes on the weekends.”

“Oh,” and Neiman can feel his cheeks heating a little. The pit of his stomach feels small and hot. He wonders if there’s anyway Fletcher’s daughter knows about him. What if she does? Does Fletcher talk about him ever to his family? The question spins in Neiman’s head.

“Now are you done sticking your fucking nose in my business?” Fletcher isn’t looking at Neiman anymore. He’s staring at the picture and has one hand propped on the shelf with the other on his hip. Neiman looks down. He bites his lip, considers and then,

“I want you to fuck me.”

“Holy shit kid,” Fletcher shakes his head, “you are a fucking box of surprises aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Neiman nods, “So?”

“Go home Andrew,” Fletcher says.

“Don’t,” Neiman says, “don’t call me Andrew.”

“What the fuck?”

“I said,” and here Neiman takes a deep breath and drops his stick bag to the ground, “don’t call me Andrew. Call me Neiman.”

Fletcher runs a hand over his face, breathing loudly through the gaps of his fingers. Shutting his eyes he nods. Neiman can feel the piece of shit grin that is crawling up his own fucking face.

In the back of his head he can hear his father’s voice: _This is a bad choice._ Neiman drops to one knee while Fletcher starts to unzip his pants. Its telepathic or maybe just good timing the way Neiman doesn’t even have to say a word for Fletcher to know what he wants. He gets one hand on Fletcher’s hip, realizing now that his fingers can stretch the expanse of it. The denim is warm underneath his palm and with his other hand he’s hurrying Fletcher along.

It does occur to Neiman that he’s never actually sucked a dick before but like most things he’s expecting to get yelled at until he’s doing it right. The line of Fletcher’s dick is clear against his briefs and Neiman presses his mouth to it, running his tongue along the raised fabric.

(Was that sexy? Shit, it felt sexy.)

Fletcher groans and his hand comes down to clutch at Neiman’s curls. His fingernails scrape at Neiman’s scalp, forcing a noise out of Neiman that makes his eyes squeeze shut with cheeks red. He lowers the waist band of the briefs, taking his hand from Fletcher’s hip to guide his dick into his mouth. He can’t say dick tastes better than he thought. The pressure at the back of his skull, however, of Fletcher’s fingers pushing him further down is nice. It’s nicer than Neiman had imagined. So’s the way Fletcher hasn’t stopped looking down at him, eyes bright and trained on the way Neiman’s wet lips move sloppily over his penis. Fletcher taps a finger, hard, against the base of Neiman’s skull.

“Faster Neiman,” and so Neiman pulls off of Fletcher’s dick only to shift his knees and go back to sucking. Slippery sounds increase as he tries to go faster. He can feel tears leaking from the corner of his eyes when Fletcher’s dick hits the back of his throat on accident. His throat contracts and he chokes a little. Mid choke Fletcher’s hand connects with Neiman’s cheek in a slap. The sharp noise rings in Neiman’s ear like it’s taken up residence there.

“I said faster Neiman,” Fletcher says, crisp and angry, “Not, ‘Neiman can you please fucking hack up all over my cock’. Do it again you fucking idiot.”

Neiman’s cheek feels sticky and raw. He sits up and gets Fletcher’s dick back in his mouth. Very slowly he slides his mouth down over and then moves back, grazing his teeth over the skin. Fletcher lets out a hiss. Neiman lets the dick out of his mouth with a popping sound and uses his hand to wrap around Fletcher’s dick. He pumps it quickly, knowing that with only his fucked up hands and spit the motion hurts. Grinning he looks up at Fletcher’s face, sweaty and ferociously red with arousal.

“Fuck you,” he says and Fletcher comes all over Neiman’s face.

…

“Andrew! You didn’t pick up the first time I rang you.”

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Neiman shifts under the covers. It’s seven in the morning and he’s lying in the dark inside Fletcher’s bed. His ass hurts like a motherfucker and the space beside him is empty. Fletcher had told him he’d be gone before Neiman woke up because he had plans with an old friend and, in his words, he wasn’t going to let some fucking fairy ass weasel make him late because he’d decided to get the daddy issues fucked out of him. Neiman had told him if he felt that way then why’d he let Neiman suck his cock to which Fletcher responded by smacking the back of Neiman’s head into the wall. It made Neiman flushed, his whole body tightened and alert at the prospect of provoking violence out of Fletcher. It made him taste blood in the back of his throat.

“Are you out right now? Or did you just wake up?” Neiman can hear the sound of people talking around his dad’s voice. He must be in the city, probably wanting to have breakfast with Neiman. Neiman got out of the bed.

“Uh,” Neiman starts, turning on the bedside lamp and stumbling forward to find his underwear, “Yeah, yeah I just woke up. I had a late night.”

(“My teacher, the one who I got in car accident for, he fucked me up the ass and I sucked his dick. He came on my face. I have three bruises on my arm, my neck and my back from him. I woke up in his bed. I’m sorry I’m so sorry I’m so, so sorry-“)

“Well if you are interested,” his dad says, “we could go get lunch today. If you don’t work.”

“I don’t,” Neiman says as he shoves one leg into his jeans. He checks under the bed for his shirt, “I just have, uh, an appointment at three. You know, with the therapist.”

He’s going to have to shower before he eats with his dad. Neiman shrugs on his shirt and hurries out the bedroom door. He takes a look at himself in the hallway mirror.

There is no avoiding the fact that he’s been fucked. It’s written on his skin, practically sewn into the lines of his forehead with a needle and thread that he’s been in someone’s bed tonight. As long as he wears something to cover up the bruises he can tell everyone it was a nice girl. Then he’ll look like the kind of boy who has sex with nice girls and doesn’t like to be slapped or yelled at during sex. That he doesn’t like to yell back and draw blood with his fingernails and teeth.

(There are a few marks Fletcher will have to wear long sleeves to cover unless he wants to wear them for everyone to see the kind of hell spawn he takes to bed.)

“Well I can meet you at noon if you’re interested,” Neiman’s dad continues. He speaks like everything is normal when it isn’t at all. Neiman tugs on his shoes, stick bag slung over his shoulder and tells his dad he’ll meet him at his apartment at noon. Hanging up, Neiman searches for a notepad and finds one. It has sunflowers on it: a relic he guesses came from the ex-wife who lives in Minnesota. He scribbles out his phone number and writes underneath it:

“If you want to again.”

He underlines the sentence. His handwriting is a lot better than Fletcher’s.

…

“Andrew, why do you think you _didn’t_ leave the night of the performance?”

Neiman looks up from his lap and at his therapist. The guy seems nice; he has faded around the edges until he’s become blurry enough to be pleasant and inviting. The struggle is to remember his name. Neiman’s dad had told him the name, said it at least five times at dinner the weekend after Carnegie and still the name doesn’t stick in Neiman’s mind. He shrugs in answer to the therapist’s question.

“I just wanted to finish,” he says, “I guess.”

“What would’ve happened if you hadn’t finished?”

The skin under his band aid would have healed by now.

“I guess not finishing would’ve been a disappointment,” Neiman feels his phone vibrate in his pocket, “That it would make me a disappointment.”

“To whom?” The therapist taps his pen on his notepad, “To yourself or to other people?”

He hopes that the text is from Fletcher. Neiman thinks that the taste in his mouth is the metallic lick of assured destruction and misses the therapist asking his question again. He doesn’t miss it the third time.

“Oh, I guess to other people,” he says, feels the lie in his cheek slip right out of his mouth, “And especially to, uh, you know. My teacher.”

It’s so easy to misdirect the conversation. All he has to do is let Fletcher into the conversation and he can feel the other person stop boring holes into Neiman’s skin. Sure enough the therapist stops tapping his pen and looks, curious, at Neiman.

“Why do you feel that you put such importance on Mr. Fletcher?” he asks.

“I see him as someone whose opinion I value,” Neiman says, “so I want him to think I’m good at what I do.”

There. Give them the tip of the iceberg. Neiman settles back in the couch, examining his hands. The session will now digress into a series of coping mechanisms he will be advised to use in order to build more self-worth. The joke is on the therapist: Neiman has plenty of self-worth. He’s just tied it to bad places in his body, made knots which connect his confidence to the flick of his wrists and the blood that pounds in his ear. Fletcher’s in there, somewhere, but he doesn’t control the stings. He’s just another one of them pulling and tugging Neiman’s self-esteem.

That’s what they get wrong. Neiman doesn’t put all his eggs in one basket.

Outside of his therapist’s office Neiman checks his phone. Fletcher has called him. Thumb hovering over the return call button, Neiman thinks about just going home instead. He flicks the screen to text messages and sends one to Fletcher to tell him he can’t talk since he’s at his therapist appointment.

Maybe it will mess with Fletcher’s head that Neiman sees a therapist now because he’s so fucked up over his teaching. It picks at the back of Neiman’s head that having to deal with all this internal shit feels like in some small part Fletcher did win. He gets to have a hold over Neiman forever. He’ll always flinch when people pick things up or come close to him or touch his face. He can’t fucking hear well out of his left ear. The webbing between his thumb and pointer finger always hurts. Permanent things are inside him that can’t ever be erased and the best he can do is give Fletcher a guilty conscious for fucking a nineteen year old former student. Neiman wants the permanence of him to be imbedded in Fletcher the way Fletcher is in him.

A tornado that leaves unfathomable damage lasting longer than a broken nose that will be named Andrew Neiman.

Fletcher texts back that once he’s done with the shrink he should meet him at his apartment. Neiman thinks about it. He’s got options but they all end in him sitting at home and eating Fruit Gushers while watching reruns unless he goes to Fletcher’s. Catching the subway is easy since his therapist’s office is only a block from the station. On the way there Neiman watches what footage he has of his audition tape. So far it looks okay but he’s been working on something else with Fletcher. The woman next to him only gives him one side glance as he beats out the solo with his fingers against the phone screen.

He’s getting so good at not looking crazy.

When Fletcher opens the door to his apartment Neiman is already half way inside. He’s doesn’t like waiting to be invited anymore. Once someone has put their cock in his ass Neiman supposes that all formality can be discarded.

“So are we going to fuck again?” he asks as he takes off his shoes. Fletcher’s got nice carpet and it would seem shitty to get mud on it. It isn’t the carpet’s fault that Fletcher is a fucking bastard.

“Neiman,” Fletcher says with arms folded, “what makes you think you can just come inside and demand dick like it’s your birthright? Is it because you think you’re just that fucking special?”

“Look,” Neiman turns and looks Fletcher in the eye, “I don’t want to form a fucking relationship with you. I don’t want you to be anything to me anymore. But I like having sex with you. It’s like an acceptable time for me to beat the shit out of you and vice versa so if you could please not be a giant ass about this we can both have a good time fucking the shit out each other.”

His breath comes out hard at the end of his speech. Fletcher’s eyes are wide but he’s not angry. If he were angry his mouth would be tighter (and that Neiman knows that makes him want to take every nice piece of glassware in Fletcher’s god damn house and throw it on the ground). Without saying anything he gestures down the hall.

“You know where the bedroom is.”

“Thank you,” Neiman spits and rushes Fletcher instead. He kisses the way he fucking feels: like a disaster. Fletcher shoves him against the wall, the hard smack of his back hitting it making Neiman feel dizzy. At some point his lip splits but his eyes are scrunched so tight he doesn’t even notice the red that seeps between Fletcher’s teeth to match Neiman’s.

He’s got hands on both sides of Fletcher’s head with a grip tight and Fletcher’s palm is stuck to his hip. The edges of his nerves feel so fucking frayed that Neiman can feel the ridges on Fletcher’s thumb. There’s a scream in the back of his throat at how the feeling marks him and he pulls away, moves his mouth to Fletcher’s neck. His teeth sink barely against the skin.

“Fuck you,” he says buried in Fletcher’s neck, “Just fuck you.”

“If you’re going to fucking cry on me Neiman,” Fletcher says, “we should take this to bedroom so I can lay a goddamn towel down.”

“Fuck you I’m not crying,” Neiman mumbles. There is spit forming at the corners of his mouth. With sharp pressure he kisses where he’s left teeth marks.

“You are,” Fletcher pushes him off, “Jesus Christ Neiman. You’re fucking dribbling your faggot tears on my shirt.”

“Oh who gives a shit,” Neiman wipes his eyes with the back of his sleeve, “it’s not like me fucking crying is something that you’ve never seen.”

“Oh yeah,” Fletcher says and he’s got the tight mouth of anger that Neiman wants on his own mouth the way he wants a fucking car to hit him in the ribs, “But I’ve never seen you snot faced and asking for a dick in your ass.”

“Well,” Neiman throws his arms up, “Here I am.”

His button up is coming off his shoulder, bunched up at his elbows and sliding down with every minute. The cargo shorts he’s wearing have a stain on them near the hem and his cheeks are so red, hot and sticky with tears that he feels the spitting image of a kid on Christmas robbed of his presents. Fletcher looks him up and down. He’s got an arm across his chest with the other arm propping up his chin.

“Do you like yourself Neiman?”

The question makes Neiman’s mouth dry.

“I,” he starts but can’t finish the thought. He likes parts of himself: his hands and his legs and his heartbeat that is always pumping and pumping blood through his veins. The whole is another story.

“Because,” Fletcher says, “when I look at you, I see someone who doesn’t like themselves.”

It is very quiet in the room as Neiman processes this. He reaches down to pick up his bag and slides it onto his shoulder. Wordlessly, he steps back and turns. With his back to Fletcher, Neiman walks out the door, into the hallway and then out into the city streets, wind making his neck hurt. Thoughts are racing behind his eyelids until the sidewalk is barely visible for how Neiman is contemplating in rapid fire the unfairness of the whole fucking world.

It’s not fair that Neiman will have scars forever and Fletcher will feel guilty for a minute. Or maybe he won’t even feel guilty but actually fucking proud. Proud he turned Neiman into a storm that drums and screams and keeps coming back to Fletcher in some hope of getting even a piece of what he’s given away. Neiman starts to breathe faster and faster. It hurts his throat like needles are scraping the sides of his esophagus every time air comes in and out. Shit, its not fair. It really isn’t fair. Why does he have to live in this body for the rest of his life when it is so broken? Why didn’t he win? Tears are forming at the corners of Neiman’s eyes. He scrunches his hands on his knees gathering fabric between his fingers as he bends over wheezing and coughing. Why doesn’t he like himself?

“Fuck,” he yells, “God damn it!”

Snort is dribbling out of his nose. Spit gathers at the side of his mouth. His cheeks feel hot, burning up in the summer night.

“Why,” he yells, “don’t you like yourself you fucking fuck?”

Neiman backs up into the bricks of the apartment building and slides down until he’s sitting with his knees bunched up to his chest with a hand over his eyes. He feels incredibly wet and sticky.

His phone vibrates in his pocket. He answers it without checking the caller I.D.

“Hello?” his own voice sounds unfamiliar and hoarse.

“Neiman,” Fletcher says, “I can hear from my fucking apartment.”

Neiman huffs out a laugh. Life is such a badly written novel.

“Yeah?” he says, “Well. Shit.”

“Jesus Christ kid,” Fletcher says, “Come back up.”

The stairs are a mountain and Neiman has legs like lead. He knocks on the door, lets Fletcher open it and, tiredly, steps inside. He doesn’t look up from his shoes, the scuffed pair of Adidas that are hand me downs from his dad.

“Sit on the couch Neiman,” Fletcher directs him to the sofa where Neiman slumps down as though all the air has gone out of him. His heart still feels like a mile a minute since the rest of his body is set to slow motion. Fletcher pulls the coffee table over to sit, legs spread apart, across from Neiman. Neiman stares at the floor and notices how Fletcher is wearing his wedding ring on his hand that is loosely hanging between his legs.

“I am going to tell you something Neiman,” Fletcher says and reaches out to tilt Neiman’s head up with his thumb and pointer finger grasping his chin, “and you need to stop your pansy ass sniveling and listen to me.”

Neiman nods as best he can. Fletcher’s face has so many lines on it. There are lines around his mouth and his eyes the way canyons are crossed with limestone and mineral. His lids are droopy. Neiman can see the veins along his skull. If he just stares he could trace all of Fletcher’s history out in the open and maybe he’s never left a mark on this asshole but other people, lots of other people, have.

“You are never going to be okay,” Fletcher says. He stops, presses his thumb a little harder into Neiman’s chin and clears his throat, “You are never going to like yourself because you are an arrogant piece of shit who has a dad who has never stood up for anything in his fucking life and mother who stood up on him. You are weak and you depend on other people to give yourself a sense of definition. You have no fucking friends otherwise you wouldn’t be here sucking some old motherfucker’s dick and you have no fucking hobbies besides beating off your tiny dick or bleeding all over my drum set. And Neiman?”

Neiman doesn’t lose Fletcher’s gaze. His mouth feels dry.

“None of that shit fucking matters,” Fletcher continues, “because liking yourself or being okay is not the root of being great. And you are going to be great.”

Neiman swallows, feels the ball of panic settle into the back of his throat and the way his hands are still shaking.

“Going to be?”

“Don’t fucking push it,” Fletcher says and takes his hand away from Neiman’s face. He feels himself follow the hand but Neiman quickly sits back up. His head feels dizzy in a good way. He’s angry about it but his heart feels light.

“Is it okay if I stay here?” he asks. Going home doesn’t feel like something he can do. Fletcher shakes his, mouth pressed together but Neiman would bet a sold out show at Lincoln center that he’s not mad or even going to say no. If Neiman’s got a sting on his self-esteem labeled Fletcher then Fletcher’s got something with Neiman’s name in his body too. Avoiding each other was never the problem.

“Fine,” Fletcher says, “just don’t jack off on the couch.”

If Neiman sleeps on Fletcher’s couch he doesn’t tell anyone. If he wakes up in the middle of the night, goes to Fletcher’s bedroom and crawls in the bed with Fletcher he probably doesn’t tell anyone that either. Maybe they fuck, Fletcher pushing Neiman’s shoulder’s into the mattress while his cock moves in Neiman with a broken sort of rhythm and maybe afterward Fletcher sucks Neiman’s dick until he’s crying to come. Maybe that is what happens and Neiman doesn’t say anything to anyone because for once he just doesn’t care if people know that he’s doing things.

Maybe Fletcher tells him to call him Terence when they have sex and maybe Neiman just doesn’t.

…

“ _Mr. Andrew Neiman_

_We are pleased to inform you that your application has been accepted…”_

The video is three minutes of Neiman in his own apartment playing the drum solo he’d written with Fletcher’s help over a period of three weeks. The lighting is bad and Neiman makes a face like he’s taking an enormous shit but he likes the finished product. He likes that he hits every note and the fact that he knows Fletcher is just out of sight of the camera telling Neiman he has the shittiest apartment in the entire fucking city of New York while flipping through a copy of the Post that Neiman’s dad left behind. There’s also the fact that Fletcher jacked him off on the couch afterward.

The second person he tells is Kristie.

“Oh my god Andy,” she says, slapping him on the arm, “fucking congrats.”

Neiman rubs where she slapped him. He’s got a mark there already still red and with a steady heartbeat of its own.

“Yeah,” he says and smiles without meaning to, “I’m pretty, uh, I’m pretty excited about it.”

“You should be,” Kristie says and gestures to his hands, “you’ve worked hard enough for it.”

They stand in pleasant silence for the next ten minutes. The lunch rush has left them with a few customers still eating inside the shop but they aren’t paying attention to Neiman and Kristie. If they had been Neiman thinks they would’ve sensed his jittery fingers and feet. The way he’s only held onto the ground through gravity and if he could only he’d float into the fucking sky.

He’s got a letter in his backpack that says he’s worth having at a school. He’s got it god damn writing.

The first person he tells is his dad.

Neiman watches his dad read the letter, his eyes lighting up and finds himself wishing that his dad would hurry up. He’s just sitting on the other side of the couch waiting to be spoken to and it feels like shit. Neiman doesn’t want to wait anymore.

“So,” he says, “I guess I’m moving.”

“Oh Andrew,” his dad says, “I’m so proud of you. I know you worked really hard on that audition tape and to do all that on your own is really an accomplishment.”

“Oh, yeah,” Neiman says, leaning back so his dad can’t see his face twitch mid-lie, “totally.”

His dad pats his knee. It feels like an empty gesture but the affection in his dad’s voice is genuine. They watch _The Postman Always Rings Twice_ and Neiman consents to eat at least one handful of raisinettes before making a face as he swallows them.

“So when do you leave?”

“On the fourteenth,” Neiman says. He plays with a loose band aid instead of looking at his dad. It’s one of the band aids he stole from Fletcher’s house.

“I’ll give you a ride to the airport,” his dad says, grinning at the screen, “it’ll be nice. One last adventure for Andrew and his dad. I might have to shuffle something around at the school though. That’ll be right when the fall semester starts.”

“I’ll get a ride with someone,” Neiman says, “I wouldn’t want to put you out or anything.”

He doesn’t tell Fletcher. There’s a moment when he could have. They were on Fletcher’s couch and Neiman had his shirt off, pants unbuttoned and looking at Fletcher’s bookshelf while instead of paying attention to him Fletcher was trying to find a record to play. The words were on the tip of his tongue and yet. Neiman’s eyes had wandered to the frame on the shelf and he thought about how someday he was going to be a picture for Fletcher. A memory to keep the coals of sadness red and orange during slow jazz songs. Neiman kept his mouth shut.

Maybe this was selfish of him. Is Neiman selfish? Probably.

On the fourteenth he gets a cab with his suitcases and broken down drum set in the back and just Neiman in the passenger seat. In the airport waiting lounge his phone buzzes and Fletcher is calling him. He’s got three texts: two from his dad and one from Kristie.

Neiman doesn’t answer any of them and gets on the plane. The ringing in his ear gets bad during the take-off but somewhere in between grows fainter and fainter.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> do u like intense amounts of me making posts about how hard it is to introduce a penis into a scene? check me out at my [tumblr](http://avoidfilledwithcelluloid.tumblr.com/).


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